Clockwork Souls (10 page)

Sergeant Fanning scowled at Mrs. Inglis but waved Private
Buck forward. McAvers quickly handed her up into the borrowed gig, and they
were off, back to the garrison headquarters. Only then did McAvers notice that
Mrs. Inglis was carefully cupping a Siamese filigree flower in her gloved
palms. President Lincoln never failed in courtesy to the ladies. Its gold was
wrought so finely that it looked like metal lace.

Mrs. Inglis spoke to their driver with serene and entirely
unshaken confidence. “I shall be needing a large match-box, Private Buck—every
man in the Union Army smokes like a chimney, so I am sure such a thing must be
lying around your building somewhere. I must get this safely to a jeweler, who
can mount it as a brooch! And we shall require hot water, clean towels in
quantity, and separate rooms each with a good fire, to dry our clothing at.
While we wash up you shall have time to bring up a substantial luncheon—let it
not be salt pork and corn bread. And, Sam, if you do not button that stone into
your uniform pocket you will infallibly mislay it. It isn’t even ten in the
morning yet—I look to be home in Philadelphia for supper.”

In mute dismay Private Buck rolled an eye at him. McAvers
shook his head slightly in reply. It might be possible to kill the Colonel’s
wife, but it would take considerably more than Mr. Lincoln’s mechanical
elephant to do it.

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Pati Nagle

Marie Laveau stepped onto the wharf and gazed around her
at a city she had never seen, had never meant to visit. The bustle of Boston
was strange, unlike the
laissez-faire
of the Queen City. Everywhere
there were soldiers in blue. The Union army had come to New Orleans too, in
1862, but there they were strangers. Here it was Marie and her daughter who
were out of place.

Among the people gathered to meet those disembarking
travelers were an unusual couple: the man was a Negro, dressed in a decent suit
of clothes and carrying himself with dignity; the woman was fair, in a plain
but graceful gown of green bombazine and fawn gloves, and walked stiffly erect
as she came forward. Marie smiled with recognition; it was not a woman at all.
It was Mignon.

“Madame,” said the automaton in a tinny voice Marie
remembered well. “Thank you for coming.”

“How kind of you to meet us,” said Marie.

She had not seen either of them in the years since they had
gained their freedom; Dominic and Mignon had escaped together while Marie had
distracted their owner and his people. Dominic had been young then; now he was
in his prime, and looked every inch the free man of color. He was no mean
laborer, but a skilled mechanic. He had been proud even as a slave; now he
carried himself with dignity and his eye gleamed with challenge, though for
Marie he had a smile.

“Madame. I owe you deepest thanks.” He bowed deeply.

“I am glad to see you looking so well, Dominic. You both
seem to have prospered.” She turned to Philomène, ever quiet and deferential,
who had come up behind her.

“This is my daughter, Marie Philomène. Mignon, and Dominic . . .”
She realized she had never known his last name.

“Dubois, Madame. Mignon has also taken the name Dubois,” he said,
and turned to Philomène with a smaller bow. “Mademoiselle. An honor to meet
you.”

She returned a prim nod. Dominic offered his arm to Marie,
and she accepted his support to the carriage that awaited them.

She was no longer young; the hair beneath her headdress was
now silver. The fire that had once coursed through her limbs had diminished. At
home, it was her eldest daughter, Marie Heloïse, who now presided over the
gatherings at Bayou St. John.

The carriage took them to a hotel, an unimposing structure
of brick with white columns. Marie suppressed her annoyance; the columns
reminded her of the plantation houses. She knew it was merely the fashion, but
it made her grit her teeth. They went in to a private parlor where Mignon
fussed so about Marie’s comfort that Philomène began to frown.

“Yes, yes,” Marie said, “Coffee will be fine. Now tell me,
what is this endeavor about which you are so exercised? You were very
mysterious in your letter.”

Mignon exchanged a glance with Dominic.

“We wish to raise a regiment of volunteers for the war,”
Dominic said.

“A regiment of ensouled automata,” added Mignon.

“The First Massachusetts Automated Engineers.”

Marie fairly gasped at the audacity of it. “How will you
manage?
I
cannot fund such an enterprise, much as I might wish to.”

“Madame!” Mignon came as close to looking aghast as her
static doll’s face would permit. “We did not ask you here to beg for money.”

“Funds are not our greatest problem,” said Dominic, “though
we must certainly raise them. What I am most in need of is men.”

“You mean recruits?” Marie said.

Dominic shook his head. “We have enough automata to fill the
ranks—more than enough, indeed—but the army will not accept them as officers.
The regiment must be led by men. White men,” he added with a frown.

“I fear I can be of no help to you,” Marie said. “Most of
the businessmen I know have long since found their places in the army, those
who wish to.” She did not add that a number of them had accepted commissions in
the Confederate army. It was only to be expected. Louisiana was,
en fait
,
a part of the South.

“We wondered if, perhaps, your husband might be persuaded to
serve?” Mignon said.

Philomène stirred in her chair, but remained silent. Marie
swallowed a sudden sadness. While they had never actually married, Christophe
was the father of all her children, and she had grieved as a widow.

“My husband passed on some years ago,” she said.

“Forgive me,” Mignon said at once. “And accept my
condolences.”

“Thank you,” Marie said with a glance at her daughter.
Philomène also still grieved, she knew. Reminders such as this brought the
feelings forward.

“Perhaps you could persuade some of the gentlemen here, in
Boston, to take up the cause,” Dominic said.

Marie regarded him, and had to admit that his determination
did him credit. “I fear you overestimate my influence,” she said softly. “My
name means little here. I am an old Creole lady, nothing more.”

He bowed his head, acknowledging the rebuff. It made her
sorry, and she sought for some hope to ease the disappointment.

“There is one man to whom I could write,” Marie said. “I
believe he remembers Mignon.”

Mignon lifted her head at this. “Anthony?”

Marie nodded, then looked to Dominic. “Perhaps you remember
Anthony Ramsey? He was only a boy when you left.”

Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “I remember his father.”

“He is dead, that one. Anthony now owns Laurel Grove. He
would agree with your cause, I think. I can ask him to come, but I make no
promise.”

Dominic drew two long breaths, his mouth set. At last he
gave a single nod.

“Please give Anthony my kindest regards,” Mignon said. “If
you think it will help, you may tell him that I will be serving in the
regiment.”

“Mais non!”
said Marie. “Women do not serve as
soldiers!”

“I will dress as a man. I can do as much as any human male.”

Marie knew this to be true. Though she was not built as a
laborer, Mignon was still quite strong.

“Would Ramsey be willing to command the regiment?” Dominic
asked grudgingly. “It is a commander that we need most.”

Marie raised her brows. “You have found no one to accept
this high honor?”

Dominic’s smile twisted bitterly. “None.”

“Anthony might be willing. Certainly I will ask.”

“Please do. Very few white men will consider commanding
automata. Even the Negro regiments have had greater success recruiting officers
than we. We have a handful, but none are of the stature to command. It requires . . .”
He paused, his jaw tightening. “. . . a certain social status,
to be accepted by the Army as a commander.”

“Well, that is something Anthony has. I will write to him.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

“And what of you?” Marie asked. “Will you also join the
ranks?”

Dominic nodded, his expression sober. “As a non-commissioned
officer, I hope. It is the best I can expect.”

“Would you do better to join a Negro regiment?” Marie asked
gently.

Dominic frowned. Mignon answered for him. “No, Madame. It
would be the same. Neither Negroes nor automata may be officers.”

“I see.”

The fight for freedom was familiar to her, though in New
Orleans her efforts had been primarily on behalf of her fellow Creoles. She had
never forgotten Mignon’s plight, however, and she knew that the automata faced
not only the same obstacles as human slaves, but the additional stigma of being
machines. Not all automata were ensouled, but those who were needed the
protection of all who realized the sacred value of a soul, no matter where it
resided.

“Bien
. I will help you,” Marie said.

Instead of returning home, Marie extended her visit
indefinitely. She and Philomène leased a house in the neighborhood where
Dominic and Mignon shared a home. Marie wrote her letter to Anthony Ramsey and
anxiously awaited a reply.

Dominic spent his days attempting to find more officers for
the would-be regiment. Marie and Philomène assisted Mignon, who had a
successful business making gloves.

On fine days, Marie sallied forth with her basket and
Philomène’s escort to see what she might find in the marketplace, and to learn
what listening might tell her. She collected what she could of items she kept
in store back at home. These were most often to be found at the markets where
the colored populations traded. On these excursions she left her Parisian
bonnet at home and wore her traditional headscarf, tied in the distinctive
seven-pointed style that informed the knowledgeable of her status as a
priestess of voudon. This, along with her interest in such things as certain
herbs and fabrics, and rarer curiosities such as beads of colored glass and the
bones of small animals, evoked speculative glances. She found no one openly
selling charms on the market, and soon she began to receive low-voiced
inquiries. Thus, she resumed her own trade in a place where she had never
imagined practicing it, amidst the northern Protestants.

She missed her home and her children. She missed her snake
as well, but this cold climate would be uncomfortable for a python, and she
entertained no thoughts of sending for the creature she had left in Heloïse’s
care. She had with her a shed skin of Zombi’s, which she had kept supple
through the years by applications of a special oil of her own concocting. Zombi
herself was long gone.

One February day, when the stale snow lay in drifts along
the streets, she and Philomène returned from the market to find a note from
Mignon wedged into their door, urging them to come at once to her and Dominic’s
house. They set off at once, not bothering to go in, for the hour was late and
daylight would soon fade.

The Dubois’s house was painted blue with white trim. Yemaya’s
colors, Marie thought whenever she saw them, and paid silent honor to the Queen
of the Sea.

Mignon and Dominic had a visitor: a tall, portly white man
with red hair and beard, the latter well-trimmed and liberally sprinkled with
white. He was seated on the divan in the front parlor, talking with Dominic,
and turned a mildly curious and startlingly blue eye toward Marie and
Philomène, but did not rise when they entered.

Dominic stood, and greeted them with a bow. “Madame Paris,
Mademoiselle, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Daniel Malcomb.”

Marie acknowledged the visitor with a nod. “Mr. Malcomb.”

“Soon to be Colonel Malcomb, eh, Dubois?” Malcomb chuckled,
seeming pleased with himself. He looked Marie up and down. “French, are you?”

“Creole,” Marie said, not feeling that this man deserved—nor
indeed, desired—any further explanation. She bristled as his blue gaze lingered
momentarily upon Philomène, but then he turned his attention back to Dominic.

“Well, I’ll leave you to manage the details,” he said. “I
can round up one or two fellows to help. I’ve got a man in mind for
quartermaster. See if you can find a few well-bred men for the regimental
officers. Those fellows you’ve got . . . well, they’ll do for
company commanders.”

Dominic bowed, though he did not smile. “Madame Paris knows
a gentleman who may be willing to join us. She has written to him.”

“Has she? Very good, very good.”

He did not exhibit much confidence in Marie’s connections,
as he took his leave. While Dominic showed him out, Mignon invited Marie and
Philomène to take his place on the divan.

“And so that is to be your colonel?” Marie asked when
Dominic returned.

“We have no choice,” Dominic said, though clearly he was
unhappy. “He has pledged two hundred thousand dollars to equip the regiment.”